


M Train

by allcanadiangirl (andchimeras)



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-31
Updated: 2002-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/allcanadiangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Watching the light come closer like a bullet down the barrel." Double second person POV: two men, two descents, one story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M Train

_You are not a part of this city_, the rails scream, sparks flying blue and yellow in the darkness, _find enlightenment in that_.

It has only been six months, you tell yourself, it will take time to get over this. The shot buries itself in your chest and there are your footsteps falling away.

The car shudders and your head bounces between the back of the seat and the window, you wince, open your eyes.

 

&amp;

 

You press his face into the pillow to press down your wailing rage. When he moans you figure he likes it rough. You push harder at both ends, he claws at the headboard in panic or pleasure, doesn't matter to you. Struggle deadened by tangled sheets, your arm around his torso, you pull him jerking closer, you try not to breathe.

Hard breath muffled by cotton, snagged on tears. Fingers on the butt of your gun in your waistband, you leave him on the bed. You are half-strangled.

 

&amp;

 

You climb into the last car of the M train and push your way to the back corner seat. After six stops the car is nearly empty: you and an elderly Asian woman with six paper bags of groceries. They rustle in the quiet chaos of rhythm.

Who shops at midnight? the old instinct wonders, and you pass out.

 

&amp;

 

You are against the bar in another dive, another city, you are paying to hear Johnny Cash and drink bourbon when you have two bottles and twenty records at your apartment. You are wondering where the weekend went and you are dreading the morning with a passion you hold distant from actual work.

You are remembering how much you hated him and that you didn't even know his name.

You are not a part of this city, the Beam whispers as the bartender pours you another double.

Glass clicks on glass, on wood and metal, on teeth. You wonder why you've been drinking bourbon at all. You hate bourbon.

You pull out a cigarette and leave to catch the M train.

 

&amp;

 

_This is not dignified_, some voice sobs, this is wrong and worthless. But you push inside anyway and you remind yourself that everyone who would feel betrayed is gone.

She mewls and you've always hated that, you grab your pistol from the floor and press it to the back of her neck, her hair catches in your fingers and snaps in the neon-frosted darkness. Some would call what happens next rape but when you are gone her money is on the nightstand and she isn't crying.

 

&amp;

 

Between nights you wander the line, you watch them get on and off and off again, you stand in the hurricanes of words and footsteps and you swear you're going to call somebody because this feeling is familiar, you know you're six inches from the edge.

It's only been a year, you tell yourself, tapping the razor on the sink's edge. Everybody needs time. You will readjust, you will belong here.

You will stop picking up strangers for fun and profit and trying half-heartedly to kill them.

But tonight is Friday night and Friday nights are for the eye of the storm and watching the light come closer like a bullet down the barrel, fighting the urge to jump.

 

&amp;

 

On Sundays you wake on your preferred side of noon and drink a pot of coffee so you're wide awake for bourbon in the evening.

You grab your ID and head for the M train.

 

End.


End file.
